


lupus intus

by tzar



Series: the wolf within [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Female Jon Snow, Gender or Sex Swap, Non-Linear Narrative, Possessive Behavior, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-08 15:57:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12257541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tzar/pseuds/tzar
Summary: (she is half wolf and so much more)Three kisses and a promise.





	1. Chapter 1

          i. 

 

The Essos heat is stifling.

At night the earth cools and winds of the shores of the sea bring a slight reprieve of cool air. Still, the heat warms her skin and Joanna stands outside on the balcony facing the sea. Try as she might, the weather of Essos will always be an unfamiliar friend, strange but welcome.

Joanna breathes in the ocean air deep and tastes the salt on her tongue. Never would she have thought she would come to Essos, never would she have dreamed of the riches and luxuries she’s surrounded by now.

Joanna closes her eyes as a breeze lifts through the air. She tilts her head back, dark hair cascading down her shoulders as the cool air kisses her skin in a brief pass before it’s gone.

“Joanna.”

She turns at the sound of her name. Her brother –different in every way, in personality, in looks, hers dark, his light – stands before her, white hair contrasting sharply against the black and gold embroidered jacket he wears.

“Aegon.” She greets lowly, still unsure of their familiarity with each other even after having spent six moons together.

Together they make the last of Rhaegar Targaryen’s children.

The heirs to the Iron Throne.

“What are you doing out here? The guests are inside.” His tone is serious but there’s a soft turn at the corner of his mouth that contradicts.

“I’m uncomfortable inside.” She confesses, laces her hands behind her back and looks to the ground.

Lady Catelyn’s disapproving face flashes in her mind’s eye. It’s been years since she’s left Winterfell and still the anger and shame trail behind her like her own shadow clinging to the life in her body.

“You shouldn’t be. These people are here to celebrate us. On this night we make new alliances.” Aegon walks closer to her and casts his eyes upon the unruly sea, “Once we have our army and ships we’ll sail across the Narrow Sea and take back what is ours.”

She wonders, briefly, when the transition of what was his became _theirs._

“I don’t think I told you.” Aegon’s voice is low and soft when he turns his eyes back to her, like he doesn’t want anyone to hear what he says, “You look beautiful tonight.”

Her heart races and Joanna can’t find the words to string together to create a thought let alone speak them. Aegon steps closer to her, he is taller so she has to lift her head to meet his eyes. They are much lighter than hers, a lighter purple closer to the color of the lavenders planted around the gardens.

Aegon smiles softly and lifts his hand to her cheek. The back of his fingers slide down her cheekbone to her jaw, it leaves a phantom trail of fire. She almost wants to ask what he’s doing, why he’s doing it, it seems much too intimate but a part of her doesn’t want to speak.

“You always look beautiful, of course.” He says lowly, his fingers rests at the bottom of her lip for a moment before they find their way to her shoulder, playing with the edge of her dress, “There just seems to be something different about you tonight.”

Her voice is caught in her throat.

Joanna stares up into Aegon’s lavender eyes under the navy night of the sky.

Aegon’s hand is light against her skin as it trails down the deep-v of her dress. It leaves a burning trail of heat in its wake and she just barely feels the brush of his fingers against the edge of her nipple. His hand moves back up and slips over the side of her neck, light eyes meet dark and there’s something that moves between them. A sort of intensity that she never thought existed.

He tilts her head higher; eyes’ moving over the soft youth of her face, categorizing what is similar and dissimilar. Aegon slips his thumb under the sharp edge of her jaw to the soft underside, rests for a moment over her racing pulse.

He leans his head down, to the hallow of her throat. She feels his breath, warm before his mouth closes against her skin. A noise of surprise escapes her before she can repress it and her muscles are tense, arms and legs locked into position.

He drags blood to the surface in long sucks. There’s a hand under her jaw and another resting on her lower back. His fingers dig into her hip briefly before he lets her go, soft lingering kisses up her neck, like the soft touch of butterfly wings.

The hallow of her neck is damp and she’s seen enough whores in Winterfell and Pentos to know that there will be a dark mark there on the morrow.

Aegon’s lips rest on the edge of her jaw, above his thumb which still rests against her pounding heartbeat. She feels his lips turn upwards, a smile, a secret, a promise; just for her.

When he pulls away and leaves he does not spare her even a single glance and all at once she feels cold. The only warmth left in her is the mark Aegon left.

 

          ii.

 

She ignores him as best as she can.

Confines herself to her chambers or the garden or the training field. What transpired between them; the unravelling of curiosity underneath the barely refrained _desire._

And she now knows it to be desire.

She feels conflicted, an ocean of emotions, a push and pull of waves crashing against her leaving her lost not knowing which way is up and which way is down. A suffocation of water filling her lungs, the automatic inhale for sweet air only to receive more water.

Joanna lays on her bed, large and soft with feathers, sheets as light as air and smooth on her skin. There is no familiarity here, no furs to keep her warm, no shutters over the windows to keep out the cold, no Ghost by her side; soft white fur and red eyes always on her. She misses it – them.

There are three dragon eggs near the hearth. They rest in a basin of hot coal, propped up like decoration (time has turned them to stone, someone says) she knows this not to be true. She isn’t sure how but she knows in her heart, in her bones, in her soul that they are not stone.

Joanna’s limbs are heavy with sleep, sore and aching from training with swords all day. Her eyes close and open languidly, in her sight are the eggs, waiting – waiting for something, someone; waiting for her.

Her eyes close.

When she wakes it’s to a touch. Someone has lain down behind her and there’s a longing hand, heavy touch from the outer skin of her knee all the way up to her inner thigh. She isn’t afraid, there’s a part of her that knows who it is, knows that there is only one person who is allowed in her chamber without her permission, only one person –

“You’ve been avoiding me.” It’s an accusation breathed along the curve of her neck.

Aegon’s hand is soft even though it’s calloused, rough from training just as hers is.

“Yes.” She admits tired and pliable.

And there’s a spark of indignation towards him because she knows that he knows after she’s had a particularly hard training session that the last thing she wants to be is challenging. When she’s aching and tired she’s soft and supple and agreeable.

He squeezes her inner thigh, “Why?”

“What do you mean why?” She mumbles angrily into her pillow, “The why is perfectly clear and understandable, it’s happening right now.”

He huffs, a blow of warm breath over her neck and it take all of her strength not to move closer into his arms.

“Do you dislike me?” Aegon asks laying a soft open-mouthed kiss against the curve of her neck. His hand slides up along her outer thigh and up her belly and resets just below her right breast.

She clenches her legs closer together and turns her face away from his and further into the pillow. Her face burns in embarrassment at the sudden realization that she has no smallclothes on, only the short slip of silk night dress she wears. She can feel his shoulders shake with laughter against her back, feel his smile against her neck and the sound ripple against her skin.

She makes an unintelligible noise to answer his question. Not a yes but not a no either. Aegon stills behind her, she can almost hear the debate in his mind until he settles on an answer, rather a question.

“Do you dislike what I want to do you?”

The question blooms embarrassment deep in her chest along with another feeling she can’t quite discern. She makes the same noise again, still tired and pliable, her eyes drooping close with every breath she takes. The feel of his thumb running slowly back and forth under the flesh of her breast is simultaneously thrilling and soothing.

The heat of the hearth, the coals her dragon eggs rest upon, pull her closer to her dreams, to her own navy night behind her closed eyes. Her eyes shut, Aegon shifts moving her with him until she rests on her back.

He nudges her nose with his, she opens her eyes briefly.

She gazes into the lavender depths of his eyes before he pulls her night dress down and moves his mouth over the valley of her breasts. Tongue hot and heavy filled with whispered promise over her heart.

_(I am yours and you are mine)_

“We’ll take back what is ours with fire and blood.”

 

          iii.

 

She is alone when the eggs first start to crack.

Aegon has just returned with eight thousand Unsullied marching at his back, the masters of Yunkai’s blood soaking the cobbled stone streets turning black with the sun. Her brother is named after Aegon the Conqueror for a reason.

She hears it at first the sharp crack against the silence. She rushes to the eggs in fear that something has happened, something awful, something has been done to take them away. But through the crack of the dark red egg there’s movement, a sliver of deep red in the depths of the dark shell.

Joanna stands and rushes to her door, dark hair whipping behind her in her haste. She opens the door and sees the guard, light hair and purple eyes, characteristics of Valyrian descent, “Get Prince Aegon now.”

The guard makes no move, stares at her wide-eyed at her sudden and disheveled appearance, “Get – Prince – Aegon – _now._ ”

At her second reiteration and forceful tone he moves quickly down the white marbled halls of the immense castle they are allowed to stay in.

Joanna races back to the fireplace, places her hands over her three eggs. Dark red, green, and blue, three dragons – in her head there is a whisper; _the dragon has three heads._

Slowly but surely the cracks widen allowing light to be casted upon small bodies moving, straining to be rid of their confinement. Joanna picks up the barely held together ends and places them in the basin of hot coals. The dark red dragon is the first to break free, followed by the green one then the deep blue.

They cry and screech, newborns in every sense of the word and instinctively her hands reach out, reach forward to them. They crawl to her shakily, bones soft not yet strong enough, nestle into her warm flesh, on against her belly, the other wrapped around her thigh and the last held high in her arm.

She doesn’t even notice the tears that spill down her face until a hand wipes them away.

Aegon stares wide-eyed and just as amazed as she at the sight of the dragons, her dragons – _their dragons._

“Aegon.” She whispers, the blue dragon raises its head from her thigh, screeches loudly, “Aegon.” She says again this time it comes out as a sob.

Aegon’s hands, weight press against her skin rest on the sides of her neck under her jaw. He tilts her head up, presses his lips to hers, open mouthed and desperate, like all the air has disappeared from his lungs and the her lips are his oxygen.

Joanna can’t feel anything but the line of Aegon’s lips, his hot breath, wet tongue, the scrape of this teeth when he catches her lower lip between his.

He holds her head in his hands carefully, gently, like she’s a fragile little thing. Slide his hand behind her head and grabs hold of the back of her neck, slips his thumb to rest on her pulse.

“Westeros will be _ours._ ”

A promise.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegon upholds three promises. To himself, to her and to them.

          i.

 

The dragons grow quickly.

In three moons they are four times the size they were when they were born (almost as large as my Direwolf, Joanna whispers reverently, running her hand along the green dragons neck). Tyraxes is the largest of the three, scales so dark they look black until light catches them at a particular angle and they shine as red as blood.

Tyraxes bonds with Joanna.

Balerion, navy blue and fierce in his own right, bonds with Aegon.

The last dragon, a beautiful green that flashes blue in the sun, remains bondless.

“I’ve named him Rhaegal. After our father.” He intones as they stand on the same balcony where he touched her for the first time.

“He’d be honored.” She says measured and Aegon can hear the unsureness in her voice. As if she is not worthy to talk of their father.

Joanna stands beside him bathed in the afternoon sunlight. A broken sunset with the watercolor of the sky reflecting on her skin.

His sweet little offering.

Like the Pentoshi virgins offered to the Pentoshi Prince every New Year.

_His._

If the rumors of Joanna’s beauty being the near splitting image of Lyanna Stark then Aegon can see why his father annulled his marriage to his mother. Joanna’s hair tumbles in dark waves down her back, so dark he expects to see the stars he spent so long gazing at when he was younger flickering in and out of existence. Joanna’s eyes are a deep purple, noticeably darker than his, and sometimes he swears that when he looks into them he sees the next sixty years of their future together.

She’s his.

It’s simple fact.

Carved so deep into his heart he aches to carve it into hers too.

But it’s too soon for her to accept. First, he must uphold his promises.

“You received a raven today?” He inquires forcing his gaze away from her before he does something rash.

“I did.” A hesitation, a flicker of doubt, can she trust him, “It was my sister – _cousin,_ Sansa. King Joffrey’s placed my father – _uncle_ in the black cells for treason. Arya’s missing and Robb is marching south with his banner men to try and rescue Lord Stark.”

“Chaotic.” He hums quietly.

Joanna bites her bottom lip, a tell-tale sign she wants to ask him something but isn’t sure how broach the subject. He wants to take her mouth into his, bite her lip with the same desperation he felt when their dragons hatched.

Joanna presses her lips together, determination settling between her shoulders, “I need to do something. I have to – they’re my family.”

He says conclusively, “I’m your family now.”

She breathes in sharply, once, an inhale of surprise, “Yes, Aegon –” He likes the way his name sounds on her tongue, “But they’re my family too.”

Aegon knows that he more he pushes the more Joanna will pull away, his little slip of a girl dancing along the edges of his sight. He knew who she was the moment he saw her in the streets of Bravos, he’s the one who convinced her to join him. He knows that he has to plan everything out carefully, knows that he cannot coerce; he has to persuade.

“Let us meet our aunt in Vaes Dothrak first. Let her bond with Rhaegal, and then we shall help your family.”

“But my father –”

“Will not die today, or tomorrow, or three moons from now.” Aegon cuts her off with arch to his brow, “Give it time, Joanna.”

Aegon places his hand on her lower back, hand spread out over the small of her waist, “You should pack only what you need. Once Rhaegal bonds with Daenerys we’ll be making our way to Bravos.”

She nods her head once.

He runs his thumb down the length of her spine. His girl, built from ice with warmth in her heart and flesh. Its near thing he doesn’t just take her.

Balerion screeches in the distance.

Tyraxes calls back.

 

          ii.  

 

In Vaes Dothrak the Dothraki bow to Khal Drogo and his Khaleesi Daenerys.

Aegon leans over and whispers quietly in Joanna’s ear, “The Dothraki follow only the strongest of Khals. Daenerys killed all the other Khals with fire so now they all follow her and her husband.”

Connington shoots him a reproachful look. Aegon can only imagine the lecture he’ll receive later on. Connington was not pleased at all when he convinced Joanna to join them. Connington steps forth to introduce them.

“Khaleesi, may I present your nephew, Aegon of House Targaryen sixth of his name.” A slight pause, an underlying tone of slight distrust, “And your niece Visenya of Houses Targaryen and Stark.”

Daenerys is every bit Targaryen with her white silver hair and violet eyes. She looks them over critically and Aegon knows she can see her brother in him.

“Visenya?” She questions, a curious eye following the path of Joanna’s body slowly down then back up.

Joanna clears her throat, a shift in her weight, a nervous flicker of eyes around the tent, “Joanna if you please, Khaleesi. I – I never knew them, my parents I mean. I’m just – Joanna Snow.”

Aegon clenches his hands, sets his jaw and wants to tell her she’s more than that. She’s more than half wolf, she’s more than half dragon; she’s so much more. She’s a girl forged in fire and set steadfast in ice, small hands reaching to into fire with dragons clinging to her soul, longing on her mouth and fight playing on her fingertips.

Khal Drogo says something in Dothraki and Daenerys replies fluently.

“The Dothraki becomes you, dear aunt.” Aegon says roughish smile on his lips.

She raises an eyebrow, “And what do you know of me, _dear nephew_?”

“Not much I confess.” Aegon catches the Khals dark eyes, “But enough.”

“Why do you come here?” Daenerys asks pinning him down with a look. She does not like the tone he takes he knows, but Aegon has spent years upon years honing himself to be every bit the King he is. Daenerys and her Dothraki do not even put the slightest tinges of fear in him.

“My father believed in a prophecy long ago. One which states that the dragon must have three heads.” He sees the flicker of familiarity in her eyes, “We have dragons.”

Daenerys huffs a soft laugh of disbelief, “There haven’t been dragons in over three hundred years.”

“Now there are three.”

Aegon walks out of the tent, Daenerys and Joanna following quickly in his footsteps. He can feel the anticipation building, four moons they spent traveling to Vaes Dothrak, the dragons are now as tall as he is and can fly.

He wills Balerion to him.

Ever faithful, the dragon, navy blue and horned likes a crowned King, formidably large and vicious lands in front of him. Head bowed close to the ground, servant bowing to master. Daenerys gasps, a sharp sound as the quiet and fearful Dothraki surround them. Joanna wills Tyraxes to her, an even larger and intimidating dragon, and a Westerosi knight that he knows that has taken to travelling with his aunt shouts in surprise.

Aegon turns to Daenerys, looks up to the sky where Rhaegal flies searching for its rider, “His name is Rhaegal, if you accept, dear aunt, then he is yours.”

Aegon walks away leaving her to her decision, Joanna follows him.

Later, as the sun dips below the horizon, as the sky turns dark and he watches Daenerys bond with Rhaegal, Khal Drogo watching in awe and pride. Aegon knows he’s making the right decisions, knows all his pieces are coming into play, the perfect game of cyvasse.

Aegon walks slowly to Joanna’s tent, an ease to his shoulders, a feeling he’s never quite had before. Things are moving quickly now but he is ready to win.

When he enters her tent he catches Missandei, the former slave of the Masters of Yunkai. Joanna’s taken a liking to her, spending time with her, learning different languages and cultures. He gestures with his head for her to leave and she does so quietly. What Aegon likes about Missandei is that she’s quiet.

Joanna sits in a bath, eyes closed, head leaned back, wisps of grey delicate steam rising in spirals from the surface.

His smile is sharp against the twisting flickers of the fire.

He walks closer and sits on the edge of her bath. When he places his palm against the side of her neck she jostles, startled, the water sloshing with her movements. He smiles sharp, wants to lick his teeth, wants to drink the sunlight off her skin, wants devour –

“Aegon.” A warning in her voice.

“Joanna.” He answers fond in a way it perhaps shouldn’t be. A slow rolling pleasure down his spine at the thought of her so vulnerable beneath him.

Something must show in his expression because she crosses her arms across her breasts and pulls her legs in closer to her. Curling inwards like a clam protecting its precious, delicate pearl. A clam he’ll pry open and gather in his hands its precious pearl, lick his fingers clean while doing it.

“When are we going to Bravos?” She asks, a deflection as Aegon leans in closer to her.

“Aegon.” She says again, warning heightened in her voice. He wants to tell her to keep saying his name; wants to tell her he’ll make her breathe it out in hitched whispers of pleasure, in moans and nails dragged down his back.

His lips just barely brush her mouth before she moves her head. He frowns briefly, instead capturing the soft skin of her hallowed neck, a desperate pull of skin between his teeth. She makes a sound, a soft, high-pitched thing and he wants to hear it over and over and over again.

Aegon trails kisses up and down her neck, one hand gripping the side of the bath to keep him steady and the other resting on the side of her neck. Her pulse quickens under his hand, quickens with every hot, wet, open-mouthed kiss.

He rests his lips against her collar.

_(I am yours and you are mine)_

“We’ll leave soon.” He says against her skin, moves back and uses his thumb to pull her bottom lip from between her teeth.

It’s red with worry; he brushes his thumb over her lips. Breathes out softly, a light press of his lips against hers.

A gentle kiss.

A faint press of her lips against his.

A beginning.

 

          iii.

 

In Bravos Aegon is busy with negotiations.

Daenerys and the entire Dothraki horde accompany them to Bravos. Aegon’s 8,000 Unsullied dutifully wait for him and the 2,000 Second Sons – cause trouble.

“What the _fuck_ were you thinking?” Aegon grits out hands clenching the table, “Are you not their captain Daario Naharis? Have you not pledged yourself as well as the Second Sons to me?”

“I am. I have.” Daario lips twist down slightly.

“Then explain to me why you cannot control your men. The more they cause trouble the longer I am set back in my plans.” Aegon turns his gaze to him.

“They grow restless. We’re never without work for too long, the masters of Yunkai, Astapor and Mereen always had some sort of job for us to do.” The captain explains, thumbs hooked on the loops of his leather sheath. His favorite knife brings comfort but he knows if he were to truly go against the future King he’d loose his head quicker than five gold dragons can lure a whore.

“Tell your men that the sooner they stop causing trouble the sooner we will fight.” Aegon’s tone is hushed with repressed anger.

Daario nods, lips twisting at the thought of his 2,000 men about the streets of Bravos.

Behind them the doors open and Joanna enters in a plain brown Bravosi dress covering most of her skin but a light enough material she wouldn’t get too hot under the Essos sun. Aegon much prefers the Pentoshi style, flowing light material, cut deep between her breasts so he can see her shape.

Although, he’s somewhat glad for the cover as Aegon watches Daario Naharis’ eyes sweep over her figure. If he didn’t need someone who the Second Sons trust commanding them, he would’ve gotten rid of Naharis long ago; on principal alone.

“Joanna.” Aegon greets warmly, “How did the meeting go?”

The left side of her lips lift in a brief smile before she speaks, “We have enough money to buy the ships we need, and then some. However, the Iron Bank did express their desire that the Second Son’s stop running amok in some of their more prestigious establishments.”

Aegon throws a pointed look at Naharis.

“I’ll go tell them now.” Daario grimaces and makes his way out.

Aegon sighs and sits raking his hands through his hair. He knew it would not be easy taking back the Iron Throne but he didn’t think it would be this exhausting. He rests his elbows on his knees, chin firmly planted on his fists as he moves his gaze back to Joanna.

“Connington told me you received a raven this morning.” He says lowly watching her reaction.

She doesn’t seem surprised, “Connington tells you everything about me doesn’t he?” It’s a rhetorical question, they both know he does, “You can tell Connington to rest his weary old suspicious head, I’m not planning on taking the Iron Throne from you.”

Aegon grins light eyes raking up her figure at she moves to pour herself a drink. She pauses, a hesitation, small hands shaking with sadness, shoulders tense, a tuck of errant black curl behind her ear. He’s gotten to know his girl so well, knows the movements of her body, knows what they mean, spent and still spends hours picturing her in his mind’s eye.

“My brother Robb travels further south. _King Joffrey –_ ” She spits the name out like a curse, “Has declared that my sister Sansa be married to Lord Tyrion Lannister.”

Argon raises an eyebrow, “The Imp?”

Joanna nods, “He means it as an insult I’m sure but at least I know Sansa will be okay, for now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Lord Tyrion is a good man.” At Aegon’s doubtful look she continues, “He is. When King Robert visited Winterfell to ask my father to be his hand I spoke to him. He was kind to me, in his own way, said he had a special kindness for broken people, bastards included.”

“You’re not a bastard.” He stands walking towards her.

Aegon wants to tell her, now more than ever, what’s carved into his heart, into his bones. If you split him open you’ll see carved into his heart and bones from old Valyria is her name over and over and over again.

 

_(Visenya – Visenya – Visenya – )_

__Joanna – Joanna – Joanna_ _

 

They are so entwined, their pasts, their futures. How much of her he owns, how much of her belongs to him from the very beginning.

“Be that as it may.” Joanna says a certain defeat running down her like rainfall, “My family is falling apart and – and I’m in Essos.”

Aegon slides his hands over her neck, tilts her head up like he did when they were standing on the balcony in Pentos, before their dragons were born.

“It won’t be long now, Joanna.” He skims his nose across hers. Soothes his hands down her back, holds her closely to him and savors the feeling of her melting towards him. There are too few instances where she allows this, “We’ll take back what is ours with fire and blood.”

“Do you promise?” Her breath is warm against his lips.

“Until my last day.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three events that change Westeros forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, I swear! This was supposed to be a one-shot but it got out of my hands thanks to the reviewers and my imagination. Had some trouble with the ending of this but hopefully it's not too bad. Drop a comment, I thirst for them hahaha hope you liked reading this as much as I liked writing it (10% what is this, 90% awe shit yeah).

          i.

 

Just before they leave Bravos, news of the Greyjoy heir taking hold of Winterfell and burning the two young Starks alive arrives.

Aegon reaches out to Joanna. Comfort on the tips of his fingers, a want – a need to hold her close, to be there for her. But she’s gone as the last syllable of the letter is uttered, grief written clearly on her face.

“We must move according to plan, Aegon.” Connington’s voice breaks through the somber air. Aegon can still see the devastated look on Joanna’s face every time he blinks.

He sighs, long and tired, “Perhaps in a few days, Connington. Joanna just lost her younger brothers.”

Connington’s lips twist into a cruel frown, he scoffs, “That should be no concern of ours, _Your Grace –_ ” He spits, a mockery, an achievement Aegon has yet to obtain, “Do not follow in your father’s footsteps and fail all because you thirst for a particular cunt.”

Outside, Aegon can hear Balerion screech and roar with the same anger that licks up his veins like a burning inferno.

“A – particular – cunt.” Aegon articulates slowly, the words taste vile in his mouth. Aegon would never see Joanna as nothing more than just something to warm his bed. He knows she is so much more than that, she’s proven herself to be more than that in her fighting, in her negotiating, in her commands.

She’s more than half wolf, more than half dragon.

She’s a Queen.

She’s _his_ Queen.

“Get – out.” Aegon bites through clenched teeth, his hands curled into fists longing to hit Connington’s face, break his jaw so that he may not speak another word against Joanna, “Now, before I do something you will not like.”

Connington frowns further but does as told.

And when Aegon leaves to find Joanna, she is gone, to a place not even Missandei knows.

On the morrow, with the dawn rising bringing forth a new day, Joanna stands on the pier commanding their ships as they set forth to sail out. She wears breeches and a tunic, sword at her hip, and even dressed as a man Aegon thinks she’s the most beautiful creature he’s laid eyes on.

Above them their dragons soar, one year grown.

He can nearly taste the hope on his tongue, a sweet zest of orange and honey, when she looks at him.

 

 

 

          Joanna does not board the same ship as he. Aegon understands of course, she’s just learned of the deaths of her younger brothers, she needs space to be alone; to grieve.

Still, his eyes search for her aboard his ship like a ghost lurking in the dark corners of the walls. He searches for her dark hair and dark violet eyes, searches for her laughter between each wave, searches for her smile in the afternoon sun.

Tyraxes and Balerion screech as they follow from high above. Daenerys and the Dothraki horde as well as Rhaegal stay back in Essos as they travel to Dragonstone. Aegon and Joanna will be able to seize King’s Landing easily with their dragons and Unsullied army and Second Sons. Daenerys and Rhaegal wait for a larger call, for a larger war, for a war foretold thousands of years ago.

When they reach Dragonstone nearly a moon later, the first thing Aegon does is search for Joanna in the formidable architecture of Dragonstone. But it is Missandei who greets him when the door opens.

“Where is she?” Aegon has no times for games; he has no desire to be separated longer than necessary from what is his.

“Grieving, Your Grace.” Missandei always polite bows her head and looks up at him. Loyalty shines clear in her eyes as clear as the water from where she hails in the Summer Isles, “Lady Joanna wishes she be left alone so that she may grieve in peace.”

Aegon casts his eyes between the small space Missandei occupies. A shadow shifts in the corner; a deep longing ignites in his chest.

“As her Lady requests.” He settles and hates the way is sounds in his mouth. He needs to be near her, he needs to have her by his side. Regardless, he inclines his head, catches sight of the shadow and leaves.

When he leaves, he does not know that it means he will not see Joanna for days. Soon a week passes swiftly and Aegon grows frustrated at not having Joanna near. He expects to see a flash of dark hair around the corner, a sly smile when she’s bested an opponent in training, her soft voice stating an opinion when they talk strategy. Joanna’s absence is as large as the phantom gaping hole in his heart.

And carved into his heart and into his bones continuously is her name;

_Joanna (Visenya)._

“Tywin Lannister gathers his forces.” Connington’s voice breaks through during their war council meeting, “The Usurpers _son_ – if you could call him that judging by the rumors, is soon to wed Margery Tyrell. Robb Stark continues his forces to King’s Landing in hopes to save his father.”

Aegon breathes out slow and measured, “I want to attack after the wedding. When that’s done we’ll negotiate a deal with Lord Stark and his son. After they bend the knee of course.”

“Why not now?” Grey Worm asks curiously, “Why after wedding?”

“For one, we need allies. Which means, Connington, I’ll need you to travel to Dorne, tell my uncles that I am alive and well and ready to take back what rightfully belongs to me. Second, the Tyrell girl wants to be Queen, that much is clear. If we attack before and take King’s Landing then she will surely try her best to sink her claws into me. That is something I do not need nor want in my life.”

“Have you considered, Aegon, that marrying will bring you allies? The Reach is bountiful in crops and gold.” Connington’s disapproval of Joanna is heard clear through his tone.

Aegon smiles humorlessly, “Than I shall put it another way. I do _not_ want her.”

Connington frowns, – Aegon’s choice is clear, has been clear since the beginning – but he acquiesces all the same. His reach only goes so far, but he remains persistent that Joanna is not for him.

An unsullied soldier enters. A brief whisper into Grey Worm’s ear.

“My King.” A hesitation. Aegon stands straighter, Grey Worm seldom hesitates, “A – a young man has seen in Lady Joanna’s chamber.”

Aegon’s breath leaves his lungs, a punch to his stomach. A young man’s face appears in his mind, Joanna’s skin, her moan and an irascible anger rises as quickly as Balerion conjures fire.

Connington does not hide his smug smirk.

His leaves the war room without a word, his anger written clearly upon every inch of his skin. Blind fury licking as hot as fire in his veins; his chest aches, cracked open and heart pried out with delicate pale fingers. Her name carved deep into his heart; bleeding.

The door to her room is closed. Aegon’s passed her door several times over the course of the week, wonders how many of those times he’s unknowingly passed by while she fucked another man. He enters without pause, and on the bed, curled around one another like secret lovers is Joanna and the unknown young man, skin touching, a desperate press of linked fingers, a closeness he has never seen settling in her bones.

There is a moment.

Her eyes catch his. Between them passes all their moments, all their touches and mingled heavy breaths.

Her eyes widen. Quickly, Joanna pushes the young man off the bed and into Missandei, a fast order snapped in a tongue he’s never heard. Aegon feels his body move before his mind catches up.

“Aegon stop!” Joanna’s voice is sharp and it buzzes under his skin; harsh like Asshai bees.

His hand is on his dagger, eyes tracking the movements of the young man being led out by Missandei. Dark hair and grey eyes, long face; a hot fury burns in him.

“Why?” He spits out, turning angrily to her. Thoughts of her with another aggravate the invisible wound in his chest. “So you can fuck him some more behind my back?”

“Aegon stop.” She says again, quieter this time. Softer in comparison to the tense rigidity of his body.

“Come here.” Is breathed out, low and tender. It curls around his body and sinks in deep.

He refuses, remaining instead to glare at her from a distance. A silent resistance, he has given her too much sway over him.

He knows that if he goes to her, his resolve will crumble easily.

She walks towards him, the brush of her black dress made of Pentoshi silk parts on the side; a flash of pale white skin. She stops before him and tries to slide her hands up around his neck. He slaps her hands way, still she tries again and tired and aching he allows it.

He hates this feeling in his chest, wants to weep at the pain, wants to hate her; knows he never will. Too much of him belongs to her.

He stands stoic and tense under her touch. She presses up slowly onto the tip of her toes, tilts her head high, “Aegon.” She whispers against his lips.

A gentle kiss.

A press of her lips against his and this is – this is what he wants. What he’s wanted since he saw her across the fruit market in Bravos. What he’s wanted for so long, a buildup of frustration with her constant denial of herself to him.

She kisses him again, a gentle cautious thing, like she’s unsure of him. He parts his lips, takes her mouth into his, and breathes her in. His hands fall to her waist; her Pentoshi dress, silk and low cut. His fingers slip easily to her side; curiously tracing the edges of her ribs.

He bites her lip, a small noise escapes her.

Aegon smiles, briefly like he’s won a battle. Until the dark hair and grey eyes, long face of a young man flashes in his eyes and he sees this for what it truly is.

“You’re distracting me.” He accuses moving his face away from hers.

Guilt flashes across her delicate features.

Aegon clenches his jaw, tightens his grip around her then he lifts her up. Her legs instinctively wrap around his hips in a way he’s spent many nights imagining.

“Aegon what are you doing?” Joanna asks high and breathy, perhaps out of fear.

He walks her towards the bed. Thinks of the past week and how many times that young man has bed what is his. He tosses her onto the bed, watches her bounce softly as her back hits the mattress.

He presses himself against her, every muscle aligned. Holds her hands above her head with his left hand, his right travels slowly down the length of her body. His tongue laying hot heavy kisses down her neck, he wants his teeth to imprint in her skin, _you don’t need another, you have me._

A slow roll of his hips into hers.

Joanna moans a high needy thing. Wants to hear it over and over again, wants to be the only one who can tease and ease such sounds from her lips. Wants to drink the sunlight from her skin and make her moan his name as sweet as nectar drinks.

He lingers, mouth open above her parted lips, another tantalizing roll of his hips hard into hers, “Tell me why. Tell me why you fucked him.”

He demands to know. Cannot bear the thought of it but not knowing drives a deeper hurt into his soul.

The mere idea of her beneath another that is not him, of being touched by another –

Aegon frowns, squeezes the flesh of her bare thigh, brushes his lips over hers lightly.

Joanna waits before she looks up at him. He thinks, if he has to, he’ll fuck her into loving him. Fool her body; fool her heart into being his forever.

“He’s not a he.” She licks her lips, looks away briefly, a nervous tell, “It’s my sister, Aegon. It’s Arya; she’s posing as a boy because it’s dangerous for girls to travel alone. I found her in Bravos, just before we left.”

After she speaks, something perches in his heart and sings a tune of hope. A dangerous thing hope is, a lesson he’s come to learn through pain.

“Do you tell the truth? You do not jest with me?”

“I speak the truth.” She says firmly and he can see it in his eyes, the honesty.

He moves his mouth to trace the curve of her lips. Then a piercing devastated scream cuts through their peaceful silence. Aegon jumps up off of Joanna, his dagger unsheathed, ready to kill anyone who dare try their chance at striking them down.

Joanna stands up just as quick when the door bursts open. It is the young man whom Aegon now knows to be Arya Stark. He can see it now, the feminine turn of her jaw, her shape hidden by her large tunic and breeches, dainty hands.

“Arya!” Joanna admonishes, hands fluttering down to fix the skirt of her dress, “How many times have I told you to not –”

She breaks, the devastation clear on Arya’s face, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“It’s Robb.” Arya’s voice breaks at her brother’s name, “He’s dead, the Bolton’s and Frey’s killed him on Lannister orders. They killed mother too.”

“What?” Joanna’s voice is disbelieving.

“It’s true.” Connington speaks up from behind the young Stark girl.

 

“The King in the North is dead.”

 

          ii. 

 

          Oberyn Martell arrives alone.

Joanna hears Daario Naharis say that he is either very foolish or very brave for doing so. Joanna thinks Oberyn Martell is just very confident. A confidence he has long since earned, his moniker throughout Westeros and Essos being the Red Viper.

In the dark throne room of Dragonstone Oberyn Martell and Aegon Targaryen are reunited; uncle and nephew. Oberyn is unashamed in his weeping, tears falling freely down his tanned complexion, his nephews face gripped in his hands. A sadness, aged and clinging to Oberyn like a shadow, a fear that if he lets his nephew go, he will be lost with the wind.

A fragment of his despaired imagination.

Joanna learns, for all Aegon appears like his father in his looks, his personality is wholly Elia Martell.

Joanna watches them together. Watches their heads lean in close, watches Aegon tell Oberyn of his life, his failures and his achievements. Watches the way Oberyn always has a part of him touching Aegon, his hope and fear nearly tangible.

It reminds her of when she found Arya.

It reminds her that she’ll never see Robb again.

Joanna leaves silently, walks aimlessly, her feet carrying her onwards as they always have done. No matter their blood, Robb was and will always be her brother, the first of the Stark children, the first to openly accept and love her even with his mother’s disapproval.

Her chest feels caved in, a dark clawed thing trying to nestle there and drown her in her sorrows.

Her siblings, the only family she had before, are being teared apart and killed while she’s on Dragonstone healthy and well in fucking flowing silk dresses made for a Queen.

She finds herself on a balcony overlooking the training grounds. Arya spars against an unsullied below, her movements brash and bold with hurt and grief, while Grey Worm oversees their spar with a careful eye.

( _I want to fight,_ Arya says with passion, _I want to kill all the Frey’s, I want to kill all the Bolton’s._ )

Arya’s grief is an echo along hers.

Joanna watches her sister, her movements and catalogs them in her mind, a stranger trying to be familiar once more. Her little sister is grown, a woman now, flowered and tall and Joanna cannot believe how much time has passed. How long it’s been since she left, traveled to Dorne to find an inkling of evidence of her mother, only to find the truth and dragon eggs stashed away, the best kept secret in Westeros.

Her; the best kept secret in Westeros.

 

 

 

          It is hours before she is found.

And it is Oberyn Martell who finds her of all people.

For a moment she’s afraid. She’s afraid he’ll hate her, Aegon’s uncle, Aegon’s living blood family. After all, even with the evidence that Elia Martell approved the annulment to Rhaegar and approved of his wedding to Lyanna Stark nobody really knew the truth except for a handful of people. Most of whom are dead now.

A decade and then some of hating Lyanna Stark of stripping Elia Martell her right as Princess and Queen, Joanna cannot imagine the hate Oberyn Martell would have for her.

“You look like your mother.” Are the first words he says to her.

Joanna can feel the words curling roughly over her skin. When she was younger she always thought she would never be as weak as her aunt, weak enough to be kidnapped by a man. Now, with the truth of her lineage she thinks she would never be so foolish or selfish enough to split a marriage and fall in love with a man already taken.

Joanna may have Lyanna Stark’s looks but she hopes she does not have her personality.

When she says nothing in return Oberyn walks to stand beside her.

“Aegon tells me your parents named you Visenya.” He peers at her curiously from the side of his eye, “He says Lyanna and Rhaegar married with my sisters’ consent.”

She feels the words get stuck in her throat before she forces them out, “Yes. That’s what the letters say.”

Oberyn sighs; a deep, dark thing.

She cautions a look from the corner of her eye. In the setting sun his skin turns a darker shade like that of the people of Essos. In the silence Joanna feels a phantom sword at her neck, her body tenses as if Oberyn is holding one to her neck and it’s not just her imagination. She feels as if a word, a movement is all it would need to cut into the soft flesh of her neck.

“I do not fault a child for their parents’ mistakes.” He says at last and Joanna’s heart quickens in her chest.

She turns to him then, intones low and cautious, “I am not Lyanna and I am not Rhaegar. My name is Joanna and as far as I am concerned my father is Eddard Stark and my mother is some tavern wench or whore… it doesn’t matter.”

“Aegon’s place is on the Iron Throne.”

“Yes.” She agrees, “I will help him become King. All I want is what’s left of my family back together.”

He stares at her critically, dark eyes deep and sharp. As if by his gaze alone he can pick and shift through her thoughts meticulously to see if she tells the truth. He must find something on her face, something in her eyes because he nods seemingly satisfied with what he’s found.

“Lady Joanna.” Grey Worm’s accented voice carries down the hall. Beside him are a little boy with an ornately carved wooden box and a much older man whom she knows to be Kingsguard.

Oberyn steps slightly in front of her at the gold cloak.

“My Lady.” The Kingsguard bows at the waist and Grey Worm stands beside her hands tight around his spear.

“Ser Barristan Selmy.” The name escapes her lips before the face fully solidifies in her head, “To what do we owe the pleasure of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard?”

Her voice is as sharp and strong as freshly forged steel; Valyrian steel.

Eddard Stark would be proud, she thinks. All diplomacy and politeness and honor. Up until the moment it suits her of course, Joanna’s learned that all honor will get you is an early grave.

“I’m no longer the Lord Commander, My Lady. Nor am I a Kingsguard.” Ser Barristan’s voice is hewn stone, strong and just as unyielding as hers.

“No longer a Kingsguard? If I remember correctly Ser Barristan, one cannot retire from the Kingsguard.”

He sucks in his cheeks, eyes flashing briefly with anger, “You are correct, My Lady. I did not retire nor did I commit treason and leave. King Joffrey Baratheon believes me to be too… _old_ – he dismissed me from the Kingsguard. Ser Jamie Lannister is now Lord Commander.”

“And now you are here.” Oberyn drawls suspiciously, hand resting on the hilt of the dagger around his waist, “Why are you here?”

Ser Barristan spares him a glance before he looks to Joanna, “I wish join you, My Lady. Joffrey Baratheon is not a good King, he is cruel. I remember you from your short stay in Kings Landing. You are good and just, you are the Queen Westeros needs.”

Oberyn Martell tenses when Ser Barristan strings the words you and Queen together and aims it at her like an arrow.

Joanna can feel her panic swelling at the mere notion of her being Queen. She isn’t one, she’s nothing more and nothing less than the bastard she was raised to be. Besides, if she were to be Queen that would mean marrying Aegon and that cannot happen.

“I thank you for your kind words, Ser Barristan, but I am no Queen.”

Oberyn relaxes at her words and Ser Barristan inclines his head respectfully. She catches for a moment, Grey Worm frowning lightly at her.

“We are more than welcomed to have you here, Ser Barristan. The previous Lord Commander of the Kingsguard in our midst is a piece of Cyvasse that we were surely missing. Aegon will have a job for you to fill.”

Ser Barristan unravels slowly, tension easing out of his body like a hot summer’s day. Oberyn reflects the eased tension and even Grey Worm loosens his grip on his spear. Joanna turns her eyes the little boy beside Ser Barristan.

“And who do we have here?” She smiles kindly and thinks he cannot be much older than Rickon. Only it’s been so long since she saw Rickon and Theon had apparently –

“One of Varys’ little birds, My Lady. Said he was told to give you something.” Ser Barristan says turning a suspicious eye to the boy.

“Lord Varys sent you?” The Spider forms in her mind. Calculating eyes and false smile, webs reaching out to even the furthest parts of Essos.

“No, My Lady.” The boy shakes his head fearfully, presents the box to her in shaking hands, “A grift from King Joffrey.”

All at once the tension is back. Ser Barristan takes hold of the boys shoulder, not roughly but sternly and Joanna holds her hand up to stop him. She takes the box from his hands.

“Did he say anything when he gave this to you?” Joanna runs her thumb along the edge of the box, a dreadful anticipation building in her at what she’ll find.

The boy shakes his head.

Slowly she opens it and inside is:

A severed hand, cut clean at the wrist, still wet with fresh blood pooling at the bottom staining the wood dark. On the forefinger of the hand is a ring. Glinting gold in the setting sun, its face imprinted with a direwolf.

 

The hand of the former hand of the King.

(A threat.)

 

 

          When Joanna stares into the fire she imagines Joffrey’s screams and Cersei’s cries for her child as she orders Tyraxes to burn him alive.

She wants so much to do it. She wants to destroy them, destroy the Lannister’s and the Frey’s and the Bolton’s. Wipe their houses off the face of the Earth, sow the Earth will salt so nothing shall ever grow. So no Lannister or Frey or Bolton shall ever rise.

She lies on her side facing the warmth of the fire. So long it’s been since she gazed at her dragon eggs resting in hot coals, now they soar above everyone; formidable and hers – _theirs._

Aegon slips to lay down behind her, arm carving tightly around her waist, his body aligning and fitting with hers. He rubs his chin across her shoulder, the short hair of his beard scratching roughly on her skin, instinctively her shoulder moves and he huff a soft laugh, laying a kiss.

This has become a frequent occurrence.

Joanna now no longer has the privacy of her room at night, not since the thought of another taking a place in her bed beside her entered Aegon’s thoughts. Aegon always comes and always stays until Connington yells from behind the locked door to – _get the fuck out of your sisters’ room._

This has gone on far too long, she admits, and has passes boundaries Joanna never had the heart to limit. It shames her because underneath it all she wants him just as much as he wants her.

Aegon’s thumb runs soothingly across her cheek. Wiping away dried tear stains. Ned Starks hand is burned into her sight, in an ornate lion carved box and Joanna wants to gut the King for it. Wants to rip out his intestines and hang him with it, face bloating and purple and _dead_.

“We’ll kill them.” He says sinking the words into her skin.

Joanna turns in his embrace to face him. Aegon’s thigh slips between her legs and temptingly moves up high enough to feel her heat without touching. Two layers of clothes separate their skin from touching and that is a thought that burns like wild fire in her mind. He grips her hip tight, her small golden silk night dress and flesh under his hand. She brushes the long white blonde strands of hair that fall over his face behind his ear. A curl of her fingers, a lingering touch then sinking stroke along the side of his neck.

His eyes are alight with a desire she’s seen too many times since she joined him.

She can feel him hard against her thigh.

“I want it to be slow.” She says quietly, eyelashes casting long shadows down her face and all too lovely for him to ignore.

“It will be.”

Aegon turns her on her back and kisses her. A desperate sort of kiss, hungry for more; hungry for all she offers.

 

          iii. 

 

          The seize of Kings Landing is laughably easy.

Aegon and Joanna fly over the eastern side of Kings Landing on their dragons. Even from high above Aegon can hear the terrified screams of the people, the bells ringing to gather their forces and raises their defenses. He maneuvers Balerion to position to destroy the Mud Gate.

Dracarys is a word laced with venom and flavored with pleasure. The Mud Gate falls within moments from dragon fire. Aegon doesn’t have a vicious disposition but the screams of this enemies as they die is a rush of satisfaction. A glance at Joanna and Tyraxes shows that they just as easily bring down the King’s Gate.

The Seconds Sons and the Unsullied flood through the gates as both he and Joanna set the dragons down in the Dragon Pit. They cannot bring their dragons into the fight unless they are desperate. There would be nothing to rule if Kings Landing is ash, Aegon acknowledges this.

Kings Landing is the largest city in Westeros; if it were nothing but ash no one would willingly bend the knee to him.

They fight as soon as they land. Unsheathing Valyrian Steel the City Watch truly has no chance against them. Still, a guard gets too close to Joanna, blade too close to her neck and Aegon’s heart feels as if it explodes in his chest as he grabs hold of the man’s helm and pulls his head far back enough to slit his throat deep.

Joanna looks at him.

The dead’s blood soak the dry sand and reaches over hand slipping across the back of her neck and pulls her into him.

He kisses her recklessly. Deep and desperate, tongue and teeth trying to say what his voice cannot. She understands, of course, she always knows what he says even when he speaks it isn’t words.

They make their way through Flea Bottom. The repugnant stench of shit and death is so thick Aegon does his best to ignore it. Joanna leaves turning a corner; she along with Daario Naharis is to command the Second Sons while he takes the Unsullied up to the Red Keep.

His Uncle greets him at the entrance to the Red Keep. Dornish yellow sun tunic turning red with blood of others, guard dead at his feet. Oberyn Martell grins at him wide and bright and proud because Aegon is finally getting his birthright, the death of his mother avenged.

Aegon takes his time.

He trusts Grey Worm, Connington and Ser Barristan to hold the Royal family in the throne room while he kills all men who stand in his way.

When he enters the throne room sound vanishes. Not a heartbeat, nor breath, nothing; just his ears ringing with the distant echo of swords clashing and his enemies blood dripping down strands of his hair.

He stands in front of Joffrey Baratheon. Cersei Lannister sucks in a sharp breath, shifting in the arms of the Unsullied who hold her down.

A smile, a sharp glint of teeth; a promise.

Joffrey growls deep, face twisted in humiliation, “I’ll have you killed for this!”

His shout echoes along the walls. Lion and Stag paraphernalia litter the room, more Lion than Stag and Aegon thinks that the Queen Mother had a hand in that.

“I don’t think you can do much in your position.” Aegon forces out, hand white-knuckled tight around the hilt of his sword.

“My name,” He begins, savoring the words on his tongue, “Is Aegon of House Targaryen, Sixth of my name and rightful heir to the Iron Throne.”

There’s a collective intake of air; an involuntary sound of surprise.

Joffrey Baratheon sputters momentarily, half caught between yelling insults and orders for men who no longer have their swords to kill him and calling for his mother’s advice.

“You could be a Blackfyre for all of Westeros knows.” Tywin Lannister interrupts, glare in his cold blue eyes. The eyes of the man who ordered his mother and sister and himself dead.

“Does it really matter? I’ve won.” Aegon laughs low and deep, the sound rumbling through his chest like the beginnings of Balerions fire, “Besides, I have dragons. That’s proof enough I believe. Only Targaryen’s can hatch dragons.”

Aegon walks closer to Joffrey. Studies the boy-King, his face twists an ugly thing. Aegon does not know much about the dead Usurper but he thinks his son looks nothing like him and all like his wife.

“You are no King, _boy._ ” Aegon says, eyes like daggers, sharp and double edged.

Aegon picks the crown off his head, tosses it into the basin of fire lighting the room. The Lannister’s flinch, countenance dark and angry. When Aegon walks up the steps and sits on the throne he’s coveted his entire life – _it feels right._

Like the world righting itself. Aegon was always meant to be King.

His army cheers and Aegon hears it echo down below beyond the Red Keep. They’ve won, taken Kings Landing and all the Seven Kingdoms.

When Joanna enters she is soaked in blood and dirt. Her sword clenched tight in her fist and she gazes at him from the entrance of the double doors with wonder in her eyes.

There is a scream to his left, where the Lannister’ are still held as they are made to watch as he takes his rightful place.

“ _Joanna!_ ” High-pitched and full of relief, sobbed harshly as a young girls chest shakes, “ _Joanna!_ ”

The young girl starts running, fighting out of the hold of the Unsullied. They make to follow her but Aegon holds his hand up.

“Sansa.” Aegon can see Joanna’s lips mouth the name, disbelief and hope rolled into one as she starts to run towards the young girl, “ _Sansa!_ ”

They meet somewhere in the middle crashing into each other. Long pale limbs intertwining, the young girls light red hair mixing with Joanna’s darker strands. Joanna cradles her sisters’ head against her shoulder and Sansa, from what Aegon’s been told, always prim and proper, does not care that grime and blood transfer from Joanna to her. Joanna’s tunic is clutched tightly in her hands; fingernails’ digging so deep Aegon knows Joanna will be bruised.

Joanna turns to Ser Barristan, “Ser Barristan if you would please fetch my father from the black cells and place him in a comfortable room with a competent Maester, I would appreciate it.”

“Of course, My Lady, right away.” Ser Barristan takes two Unsullied soldiers with him.

Aegon’s heart swells and warms at the sight of her commands. It’s a near thing he doesn’t take her there and make them watch as their new King and Queen consummate the realm they now rule.

Joanna pries her sister away from her gently, “Lord Tyrion, if you could see to your wife.”

The Imp walks slow and measured nervously from where he was held with his family to Joanna. He gives Aegon fearful looks but it is Joanna who eases his nerves, “I haven’t forgotten what I am.”

Tyrion nods and Sansa squeezes Joanna’s hands so tightly Aegon is sure there is no blood left in her hands before they move to the other side, clearly Tyrion clearly pardoned by Joanna.

The throne room is silent once more. An anticipated breath, a slow realization that Joanna Snow bastard of Eddard Stark is not a captive but is in fact with him plays on their faces.

“You little cunt,” Cersei accuses, eyes sharp, saturated venom on her tongue, “You think Westeros will see you as their Queen just because you spread your legs for him? You’re nothing but a bastard, you always will be.”

“Actually,” Aegon interrupts, shoulders tight, pushing to a stand to walk towards them, “She isn’t a bastard. That is news that will be spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms very soon. And we’re not fucking.”

Though they will be soon if he has any say about it.

Cersei exhales long and full of distain. Her head held high and proud, Joffrey imitating the same, however her two younger children, soft and scared stay curled up and compliant.

Joanna looks at him, question clear in her eyes.

He looks back and nods, a final decision.

Joanna breathes in, “ _Take hold of his arm, restrain him._ ” She says in Valyrian and the Unsullied do so.

“What are you doing?” Joffrey spits out, rage covering his features, “You cannot do this! I am King! I forbid you! I will have your head!”

Cersei Lannister utters similar sentiments in a voice just as loud, though much more vicious. Joanna does not pay heed to any voice. She unsheathes her sword, Valyrian steel glinting sharp, deadlier looking with blood dripping from her previous kills.

She walks closer to Joffrey, “For my father, Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North. For my brother, Robb Stark, King in the North. And for my sister, Sansa Stark, whom you humiliated and beat.”

She leans in close to his face and whispers, “A gift.”

In a single strike Joffrey’s hand is severed from his arm.

 

His scream echoes in the throne room.

 

 

 

            The Kings chamber is large.

His ancestors lived here, slept here, fucked here. As did Robert Baratheon and his son Joffrey. Aegon smirks, years of planning finally come to fruition. The first bite into ripe peach, juice bursting on his tongue and spilling down his chin; a victory.

Joanna enters his room. He can tell it’s her by the way she walks, the soft shifting of her dress against the floor with each step. The sweet scent of rose reaching him before she does.

“Surreal isn’t it.” He says as they stand in front of his large windows Kings Landing lit up, “All of it, finally ours.”

“ _Yours._ ” Joanna corrects strained, Aegon rolls his eyes.

“Ours.” He states firmly.

Joanna sighs soft and tired, “You’re hurt.”

Her fingertips trace the edges of his collar bone before slipping down alongside the wound a guard inflicted while he was distracted. The pressure is light and the pain feel blunted with the easy way she touches him.

“Joanna.” He captures her hand and pulls her close until their chests touch. He reaches out with his other hand and winds it through her hair, tilting her back, “Joanna.”

He says her name hushed and quiet like a secret he never wants to tell; close to his heart.

“Marry me.” He murmurs against her lips. Joanna pulls back, tense in his arms.

“What?” She blurts, voice high with confusion, “We can’t get married.”

“Yes, we can. I am King now Joanna, no one can stop us.” He says softly, watching her.

She straightens, spine solidifying and stepping back from his embrace, “We can’t get married, Aegon. It’s not right.”

“And who dictates what is wrong and what is right?” His jaw ticks in annoyance, shoulders tensing, “The Gods? The Gods don’t give a shit, Joanna. If it’s our relation you’re worried about – what people will think, who cares? The Targaryen’s have wed brother and sister for centuries. At least unlike some of our ancestors we love each other.”

“Aegon.” She snaps his name in warning.

This is not something they speak about, he knows this. But he knows what he feels, he knows what she feels, he knows that this isn’t by chance, this is set in stone made prophecy thousands of years ago.

Their future is:

Together, connected and so deeply intertwined he won’t know where he begins and she ends. The rebuild of Westeros into something greater more prosperous. Stone and metal and Valyrian steel forged in fire and Dragon glass, obsidian weaved through her hair; a warrior.

He knows this to be truth.

“Joanna.” He says firmly, imploring, “Marry me. I will have no one else but you, until my last day.”

She shifts with the weight of what lies between them, with the weight of the truth laid bare and naked for them to see. An open wound either ready to heal or fester. She swallows thickly, must see something in his expression, must see something of the truth, of their future in his eyes.

She breathes in deep, heart stuttering, hands curling into the silk of her dress and says:

 

“Yes.”

 

 


End file.
